


What the Fates Allowed

by Palebluedot



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F L U F F, Fluff, I listened to one (1) christmas carol and was RUINED, M/M, Post-Canon, a touch of london bittersweetness, post-reunion, the fandom hivemind love shack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:56:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12939651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: He tucks his head under Thomas's chin, and so he cannot tell if Thomas's mind is still across the sea, but for his own part, he pulls his attention to the second Christmas they shall wake to in the same bed of the dozen they've loved each other through, only a few days away.~~~(The plot of this is, "it's almost Christmas and there's fluff.")





	What the Fates Allowed

When the blast of cold air nips him squarely on both cheeks, James starts, but smiles when he sees it's only Thomas, home at last. If the wind nipped James, it bit Thomas all over, leaving him red and stiff and half-giddy with the rush of it all. He unslings the sack he carries from his shoulder and stamps the snow from his boots on the mat with a verve that James, quite happy to be burrowed in a few blankets before the fire, can never hope to match.

After scanning the small room, Thomas's eyes brighten when they fall on the couch by the hearth. “Hello, love,” he greets. “Come see what I've brought.”

“You could come _here_ ,” James grouses, already setting down his book and casting off his blankets. His stockinged feet test the temperature of the floor, and not for the first time this winter, he remembers that it was Thomas who first suggested that they make their home in the north. Arms drawn about himself, he goes where he's bid, and fondly notes the snowflakes melting in Thomas's eyelashes, his wind-tossed hair. “Go on then, what's in the sack?”

“Oh, a bundle of sticks.”

James pictures with perfect clarity the stacks of firewood filling up their woodshed, along with the logs already ablaze not far from where he was just sitting, and his brow creases. “You made me get up for _kindling_?”

Without a word, Thomas hands him the sack. James opens it, and it's a pleasant surprise indeed to find stiff green leaves and bunches of red holly berries alongside clean-smelling boughs of pine. At James's goodnatured look of annoyance at being fooled, Thomas laughs and swiftly kisses his forehead. “I thought surely we could find a place for them. The mantle, or perhaps the bookcase. The season is upon us after all, and they do look cheerful.”

“They're lovely, well found,” James agrees, and carefully sets them down. His forehead still carries a slight chill where Thomas's cold lips graced it, so he reaches out and brushes his knuckles over Thomas's cheek. Only deep-rooted devotion stops him from recoiling. “You, however, are freezing.”

Unconcerned, Thomas grins as he tugs off a mitten with his teeth. “If only I had someone to warm me up, then,” he remarks expectantly.

“If only indeed,” James says, and pulls him down by the scarf for a kiss.

Thomas's still-mittened hand cups his cheek, and James relaxes into it. It's damp with snow, yes, but the knitted fabric is plush, and the touch is as gentle as Thomas's lips on his own — so it's a nasty shock when Thomas's bare hand slips beneath the hem of James's sweater and fastens to his stomach like an ice-born parasite. James yelps and smacks his forehead against Thomas's while jumping free, which sends Thomas into unrepentant _stitches_ laughing, so James has to lightly pinch him on the arm through his coat. Let no one say that they do not keep each other young.

“And here I thought you loved me,” James grumbles, primly smoothing the bunched-up front of his sweater.

“Oh, but I do,” Thomas says seriously, reaching for him with mischief in his smile and both mittens off. “Very much. Here, let me hold you to prove it — ”

“The only thing you're holding is a hot cup of tea,” James insists, and he leads Thomas away by the sleeve.

A watched kettle never boils, but Thomas doesn't leave James much choice but to stand there and watch it anyway, the way he plasters himself to James's back like a lovestruck frost. His hands very happily invade James's trouser pockets for a time, but before long they begin to creep upwards again. James takes swift action, he seizes both of Thomas's hands and pins them on his belly, decidedly _over_ his sweater. Thomas chuckles in his ear and cooperates with the compromise. There's not much James can do about Thomas's frozen nose nudging against the back of his neck in the wake of each little kiss Thomas presses there, but, well, that's all right. He's taken worse blows for love.

The whistle of steam beckons for James's attention, so he raises one of Thomas's hands to his lips and kisses the back of it before stepping away. Armored with the pot holder Thomas stitched last summer, James pulls the kettle off the flame. After a bit of rummaging in the cupboard, his hand closes around the jar of those mint leaves Thomas has taken a shine to of late. There's still plenty, so into the pot they go. James thanks his military training for his ability to carry on with the business of making tea with a husband so determined to make his body heat his own standing by, but he can't much see the point in fending him off any longer when all there's left to do is let it steep. Thomas kisses his cheek, James turns his head into it, and once they've disentangled and re-entwined on the sofa with cups in hand, James thinks that perhaps the tea was left to get a tad stronger than he intended.

They sit in firelit quiet for a time, the only sounds the crackling of the fireplace, the subdued clinking and sipping noises that come along with tea, and the occasional shivery exhale from Thomas, who still has a bit of thawing to do. The shape they impress into their shared blankets shifts slightly as Thomas trails his toes up and down the arch of James's foot, and once more when James's hand finds Thomas's and their fingers link over his thigh. When their cups are drained, Thomas takes James's from him and places them both on the nearby table. James slips under Thomas's arm as it lowers, and with a pleased hum, Thomas kisses the top of his head. Tea-warmed fingers play with James's hair, which is beginning to grow out in earnest. From summer to winter, so much can change.

With his eyes closed in contentment and the firelight warm on his cheek, James expects he might fall to dozing. Instead, the ghost of another winter fire with embers long-dead appears to him, unbidden and precious. His ear rests over Thomas's heartbeat, steady and strong. He knows where they sit in time. All the same, he opens his eyes and turns his face to Thomas, and something in his gaze must give his desire for a bit of grounding away, for Thomas asks in a quiet voice, “Are you back there, too?”

“Yes,” says James, and knows he should not be surprised. Christmas as it came to them in 1705 was a night not as unlike this one as it could have been, warmed as he was by a hot drink, a well-tended hearth, and Thomas blissfully close beside him. But then the taste on his tongue was spiced chocolate, not mint tea, his cares were not one tenth so heavy, and now Miranda's soft hands and sharp wit and laugh like silver bells are nowhere to be found but for memory. It is a strange and cruel blessing that that Christmas should be the last holiday they spent together. It was a fine memory to tend like a lamp for all those years, though it did ache each time it was unearthed and reburied, but it was never meant to be a choir of one. Such a sweet night should never have been embittered by grief once, let alone scores of times from three sides.

Thomas offers no reply but for a squeeze to James's shoulder and a soft sigh, and James does not press him. He tucks his head under Thomas's chin, and so he cannot tell if Thomas's mind is still across the sea, but for his own part, he pulls his attention to the second Christmas they shall wake to in the same bed of the dozen they've loved each other through, only a few days away. Dinner is already well in hand, they have wine and cheese in the cellar, and meat and vegetables aplenty to set a fine table, and although James has not told Thomas yet, he's traded for enough butter and sugar for a cake. Thomas, romantic that he is, has said that the only gift he could ask for is James's company — James is confident, however, that he will not turn up his nose at the new pens, book of poetry, and small bag of candied nuts hidden away in James's drawer, wrapped in brown paper and tucked in behind his socks.

And of course, there's the evergreen branches that wait for them just across the room. James noses lightly at the dip in Thomas's collarbone for a moment before slowly sitting up. “The mantle, you said?” he asks gently. “And the bookcase?”

Thomas's smile is a touch watery, but smile he does. “I think it would look nice, don't you?”

“I do,” James says, and rises to his feet with only a mild ache in his knees. He holds out a hand to help Thomas follow him. “It may not be as fine as you're accustomed to, my lord, but between the two of us, we can surely get the place looking festive enough.”

Once standing, Thomas does not let go his hand, instead using it to pull James to him. He gathers him in his arms and buries his face in James's neck, which muffles his voice when he says, “Don't you know that this is so much finer than what I'd grown accustomed to, you dear old fool?”

“There, now,” James soothes before realizing that it's only a hug, a gift and gratitude both, but not a cry for comfort, not this time. He returns it in kind.

Chest to chest they stand, James cradling Thomas's head, until Thomas straightens. He takes a moment to nuzzle James's temple before stepping away entirely. “The mantle to start, I think,” he says with a small smile.

“The mantle,” James nods, and follows.

Bough by bough, they arrange the greenery together. The holly leaves and pine needles are sharp, they must be to keep the animals that feed on green things from making easy meals of them, but the two of them haven't an uncalloused or careless hand between them now, and do not mind. When the last stray holly berries have been returned to their fellows, James fits an arm around Thomas's waist.

“I'd call that a job well done,” he says, taking in their cottage all adorned in firelight and rich greens and reds.

“Not quite done, I'm afraid,” Thomas amends. “There's one left.”

There certainly was not, if the empty sack was anything to go by. “Out with it then,” James prompts, half-curious and, given what that gleam in Thomas's eye has preceded in the past, half-wary.

With a grin, Thomas reaches into his pocket and produces a sprig of mistletoe, considerably mussed and flattened from its transport, but still, James would say, functional.

“Goodness me, how could we have forgotten that?” James says, draping his arms over Thomas's shoulders. “You'd better hang it up now, quickly.”

Thomas tilts his chin up with one crooked finger. “You're lucky you have me here to remind you.”

“That I am,” James murmurs, and doesn't wait for Thomas to hold the mistletoe aloft before leaning in. Thomas kisses him sweetly, and every touch of his hands and lips is warm, warm, warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, I listened to [this version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHVIVNoIPVM) like, a lot while writing this. 
> 
> I'm not on tumblr so much anymore for productivity reasons, but you can find me [here.](https://www.brightbluedot.tumblr.com)
> 
> Happy holidays, y'all! <3


End file.
